Pros fic - Never Too Much Garlic Bread by Slantedlight
Here's a wee ficlet for milomaus, because she prompted just when I needed it: garlic. It's not much, but it's writing, and it's the lads... *g*
Never Too Much Garlic Bread
by Slantedlight
It had been a hell of a day, a day of gunfire and uncertainty and threat and death, and when it was all over, when there was a row of bodies laid out on the ground yet again, and none of them were entirely sure that Cowley'd not had them following orders he’d never properly, officially, given them, what Doyle had decided was that they were all going to go out for a good meal before going home - an Italian down at Angelo’s, all red checked tablecloths and candlewax dribbled down Chianti bottles, and too much wine and too much laughter, too loud.
It wasn’t a good idea. The day was too close, Bodie felt stifled by it still, he didn’t want to be here with Lucas and McCabe and the rest of them, not now. What he wanted was to be doing more violence, something hard, something fast, something…
His eyes caught on Doyle, in the chair opposite. Garlic butter slid down Doyle’s fingers, and he paid no attention, didn’t even notice, gesturing emphatically at McCabe with his other hand, something about the FA cup yet again, and who deserved it more, the bread he was holding all but forgotten. He held it high, elbow resting on the table, and the light caught the golden colour of it, and suddenly Bodie couldn’t take his eyes away.
He’d been watching Doyle’s hands the night before, too.
Last night Doyle’s hands had slid over Bodie’s own skin, slow and sure and competent as they always were, and Bodie had been undone. He remembered the way Doyle had moved, even more lithe and graceful when he was naked, muscles obeying every thought without question, straddling him as he lay on the bed. He remembered how Doyle had sat back on him so carefully, so that their balls were just touching, and then the way that he’d leaned forward, taken his weight on his arms, hands either side of Bodie’s head, lower and lower, until Bodie opened his mouth and took Doyle’s very breath inside him, then lips, then his tongue…
He remembered wanting Doyle to be touching him, wanting to feel the hands that were holding them apart as much as they were holding him up. Doyle’s body radiated warmth just above him, shooting down to Bodie’s groin where their cocks were matched length for length, the only place that their skin slid together, yet. He’d reached his own hands around, one on either side, and he’d stretched them across Doyle’s backside and pulled them harder together, surprising a gasp of air from Doyle, mid-kiss, the sudden weight of him perfect, just what he wanted…
He’d groaned. He remembered groaning at the feel of Doyle’s backside, at the way he could reach to brush his fingers over his arsehole, teasing him. Promising.
That’s when Doyle had stopped everything he was doing, when he had said just one word, nodded to the plum velvet of the headboard.
“Sit.”
And when he had… When Bodie’d moved himself as instructed, half breathless with anticipation, half pissed off that Doyle had rearranged them then, that’s when Doyle’s hands had begun to move on him. On his face, holding him still while they kissed, over his shoulders, across his chest, down and down… and then away again to the drawer in the bedside table, to find the KY, to slick it over his fingers, so that they shone in the lamplight, just as they did now with the butter, slippery, and so sure of what they were doing, and then Doyle had raised himself to his knees, and…
“Oi, Bodie - you awake?”
Bodie looked up. Anson was standing, stretched awkwardly over the table, litre bottle of chianti gesturing dangerously in his direction.
It was automatic. “Yeah, go on then.” He held out his glass for Anson to fill, turned his head and caught Doyle’s eye, glancing at his hand for a second, for just a second, at the garlic butter that trickled down his fingers. “Get some more garlic bread, too, I reckon. I’m starving.”
Doyle’s eyes followed his, widened just a little, and then his lips quirked in a smile, McCabe forgotten. Holding Bodie’s gaze, right there in the restaurant, amidst the sloshing of wine into glasses and the chinking of cutlery and the rough voices of half a dozen agents relieved to have lived yet another day, he reached with his tongue to lick away the trickle of butter, and Bodie felt every muscle in his body relax and then quicken again. Waiting, anticipating.
Yeah. A night out had been just what he needed.
Never Too Much Garlic Bread
by Slantedlight
It had been a hell of a day, a day of gunfire and uncertainty and threat and death, and when it was all over, when there was a row of bodies laid out on the ground yet again, and none of them were entirely sure that Cowley'd not had them following orders he’d never properly, officially, given them, what Doyle had decided was that they were all going to go out for a good meal before going home - an Italian down at Angelo’s, all red checked tablecloths and candlewax dribbled down Chianti bottles, and too much wine and too much laughter, too loud.
It wasn’t a good idea. The day was too close, Bodie felt stifled by it still, he didn’t want to be here with Lucas and McCabe and the rest of them, not now. What he wanted was to be doing more violence, something hard, something fast, something…
His eyes caught on Doyle, in the chair opposite. Garlic butter slid down Doyle’s fingers, and he paid no attention, didn’t even notice, gesturing emphatically at McCabe with his other hand, something about the FA cup yet again, and who deserved it more, the bread he was holding all but forgotten. He held it high, elbow resting on the table, and the light caught the golden colour of it, and suddenly Bodie couldn’t take his eyes away.
He’d been watching Doyle’s hands the night before, too.
Last night Doyle’s hands had slid over Bodie’s own skin, slow and sure and competent as they always were, and Bodie had been undone. He remembered the way Doyle had moved, even more lithe and graceful when he was naked, muscles obeying every thought without question, straddling him as he lay on the bed. He remembered how Doyle had sat back on him so carefully, so that their balls were just touching, and then the way that he’d leaned forward, taken his weight on his arms, hands either side of Bodie’s head, lower and lower, until Bodie opened his mouth and took Doyle’s very breath inside him, then lips, then his tongue…
He remembered wanting Doyle to be touching him, wanting to feel the hands that were holding them apart as much as they were holding him up. Doyle’s body radiated warmth just above him, shooting down to Bodie’s groin where their cocks were matched length for length, the only place that their skin slid together, yet. He’d reached his own hands around, one on either side, and he’d stretched them across Doyle’s backside and pulled them harder together, surprising a gasp of air from Doyle, mid-kiss, the sudden weight of him perfect, just what he wanted…
He’d groaned. He remembered groaning at the feel of Doyle’s backside, at the way he could reach to brush his fingers over his arsehole, teasing him. Promising.
That’s when Doyle had stopped everything he was doing, when he had said just one word, nodded to the plum velvet of the headboard.
“Sit.”
And when he had… When Bodie’d moved himself as instructed, half breathless with anticipation, half pissed off that Doyle had rearranged them then, that’s when Doyle’s hands had begun to move on him. On his face, holding him still while they kissed, over his shoulders, across his chest, down and down… and then away again to the drawer in the bedside table, to find the KY, to slick it over his fingers, so that they shone in the lamplight, just as they did now with the butter, slippery, and so sure of what they were doing, and then Doyle had raised himself to his knees, and…
“Oi, Bodie - you awake?”
Bodie looked up. Anson was standing, stretched awkwardly over the table, litre bottle of chianti gesturing dangerously in his direction.
It was automatic. “Yeah, go on then.” He held out his glass for Anson to fill, turned his head and caught Doyle’s eye, glancing at his hand for a second, for just a second, at the garlic butter that trickled down his fingers. “Get some more garlic bread, too, I reckon. I’m starving.”
Doyle’s eyes followed his, widened just a little, and then his lips quirked in a smile, McCabe forgotten. Holding Bodie’s gaze, right there in the restaurant, amidst the sloshing of wine into glasses and the chinking of cutlery and the rough voices of half a dozen agents relieved to have lived yet another day, he reached with his tongue to lick away the trickle of butter, and Bodie felt every muscle in his body relax and then quicken again. Waiting, anticipating.
Yeah. A night out had been just what he needed.